Whispering Smith
“The last doctor usually gets credit for the cure, you know.”
“Oh, I know all about that. Don’t you want to freshen up? Should you mind coming right to my room? Marion is in hers,” explained Dicksie, “and I am never sure of Cousin Lance’s,—he has so many boots.”
When she had disposed of McCloud she flew to the kitchen. Puss was starting after a chicken. “Take a lantern, Puss!” whispered Dicksie vehemently.
“No, indeed; dis nigger don’ need no lantern fo’ chickens, Miss Dicksie.”
“But get a good one, Puss, and make haste, do! Mr. McCloud must be starved! Where is the baking powder? I’ll get the biscuits started.”
Puss turned fiercely. “Now look-a heah, yo’ can’t make biscuits! Yo’ jes’ go se’ down wif dat young gen’m’n! Jes’ lemme lone, ef yo’ please! Dis ain’t de firs’ time I killed chickens, Miss Dicksie, an’ made biscuits. Jes’ clair out an’ se’ down! Place f’r young ladies is in de parlor! Ol’ Puss can cook supper f’r one man yet—ef she has to!”
“Oh, yes, Puss, certainly, I know, of course; only, get a nice chicken!” and with the parting admonition Dicksie, smoothing her hair wildly, hastened back to the living-room.
But the harm was done. Puss, more excited
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